


Survive the Walking Dead

by the_cat_momma



Category: Fear the Walking Dead (TV), The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: All OC characters, Canon-Typical Violence, my own spinoff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 05:21:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30117765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_cat_momma/pseuds/the_cat_momma
Summary: Alaska is known as the last frontier, but that nickname has become an unfortunate truth after the zombie apocalypse. With the refugee center mysteriously overrun and winter looming, those left in the Fairbanks area have one thing left to do, no matter the cost: survive.
Kudos: 1





	1. Death is the Road

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This may seem familiar, I had another version before that was a rough (very rough) draft, before I did all of the edits and final work to complete the story. It's been finished on FFN for months and I just forgot to set things right here. Unfortunately ao3 was being a butthead so I had to delete the old version and start fresh. Thanks to everyone that supported me before, and if you're totally new and have no idea what I'm talking about, happy reading!! 
> 
> I'm gonna update every Thursday, again the completed version is on FFN but I know that's not the preferred (or functional) site for many people and reposting the whole thing at once is very tedious and overwhelming for me, so...here we are. :) This chapter is actually slightly different from the FFN version since I apparently have lost/deleted every copy of that version I had.
> 
> PS the title of this chapter and the next are both from a quote by Sri Chinmoy. I don't own The Walking Dead, I'm just a fan. If you ever want to use my characters, I would be elated, just let me know so I can see it!

**FORT McADAMS, FAIRBANKS, ALAKSA...**

“Thirty three days.” Sergeant Reynolds reached into the pocket of his cargo pants and produced a dented can of beer. He adjusted the nearest canvas chair close to the building’s rough brick exterior, then plopped down. “That’s over a month with no contact from the higher-ups.” He shook his head and popped the can open. Warm beer foamed over the top. Reynolds grimaced and flapped his hand towards the ground, sending droplets to the asphalt. 

“Has it really been that long?” Private Lancaster turned to his superior with wide eyes. He’d learned long ago that keeping track of the days only made him more depressed, only confirmed his fears that things weren’t going to get better anytime soon.  
  
“Mhm,” Reynolds hummed. He took a few gulps of beer. “We’re gonna have to do something, and soon.” 

Lancaster nodded slowly, a knot of worry squirming in his gut. Something was wrong and they both knew it, but this was the first time anyone had openly spoken of it.

Around them, Alaskan wilderness stretched on as far as the eye could see. The soaring, formidable mountains of the Hayes range were faintly outlined on the horizon, seeming to glow orange under the setting sun. A cool breeze rustled through trees just on the edge of changing into golds and reds, carrying the autumn scents of dampness and decaying leaves. There had always been an element of mystery to these surroundings, but since being sent to Fort McAdams, it sent a chill up Lancaster’s spine.  
  
Were there hordes of the undead hiding amongst those thick trees, or scared people turned marauders lying in wait to take their supplies? There was no way to know for sure, and all that separated them from the unknown was a measly perimeter of chain link fence. To the left, a long strip of concrete lead to half a dozen barracks buildings where some of the civilians stayed. A gate was secured by barbed wire at the top and a hefty padlock in the middle to keep the people within safe.  
  
It was all for show, really. None of that would do jack shit if more than a handful of biters breached the outer fence. If anyone inside was aware of that, though, they didn’t show it. Most of the refugees had managed to stay upbeat. Sickeningly so at times, actually. Sergeant Reynolds only gave them snippets of information in order to keep morale up and avoid hysteria, so they had no idea what things were really like. They didn’t know Fairbanks had far more dead than alive now, in more ways than one. There were those who hadn’t quite died, just turned into unrecognizable, feral _things_ . They didn’t know everywhere else was just as bad off as far as the officials could tell.  
  
Many of them had nowhere else to go or wouldn’t make it on their own. Elderly, disabled, those that were sick with something that didn't turn them into a monster. Fort McAdams, a sprawling military base, was simply the last stop for most of these people, and it was a responsibility that weighed heavily on Lancaster every day. He and his fellow National Guardsmen were the only thing standing between over a five hundred people and the horrors of the world, and there was only so much they could do.

Everything was finite. Fuel for the generators that gave them power and running water, diesel for the vehicles that allowed them to patrol and check on the city, food, medicine, masks. Even from the beginning, it all seemed to disappear nearly as soon as it arrived.  
  
In any case, almost all of them had shown up immediately after the first broadcasts hit the radios, and in an attempt to keep morale up, they’d only been given snippets of information.  
  


"So, Private.” Reynolds exhaled heavily. “I guess there’s no way to soften this blow, so I’ll just come right out with it...Governor Eisenberg's been on her own for a while."

Lancaster’s mouth went dry. “What do you mean?” he asked quietly, but the way Reynolds had tensed, refusing to look him in the eye, already told him more than he really wanted to know. 

Reynolds started to reply but snapped his mouth shut, his eyes focused on something in the wilderness beyond. Lancaster tracked  
  
A metallic clanging mixed with guttural growls and shrieks drifted from somewhere beyond the corner of the Fort. The Sergeant set down his beer and shot to his feet, pulling his rifle around and tucking it against his shoulder. He held one hand up, telling Lancaster to stay put, and stayed close to the building as he rushed forward.  
  
All three of them wore hiking boots, durable pants and heavy shirts.  
  


"Biters" he called. Three shots rang out. Reynolds nodded forward and said, "Come look at this shit."

Lancaster jogged over, one hand resting on the pistol at his hip. A female was slumped against the fence, half her head missing. Her teeth were chipped and yellowed, and her eyes were sunken deep in the sockets. Beside her were two males in similar shape, although one wasn’t quite as decayed, giving Lancaster the impression it hadn’t been long since he turned. Brown clods clung to the fence and dripped onto the asphalt below. Reynolds stepped forward and used the muzzle of his gun to shove a particularly large chunk of skull through a gap, then squinted through the scope to scan the area. Once he was satisfied they were in the clear, he stalked back to his chair.

  
Lancaster followed, and a tense silence mounted as Reynolds leisurely sucked down the remainder of his beer, either unaware or not caring that he’d left Lancaster about to puke. Finally, he explained, “Everything has been quiet since about a week after we got here. “There hasn’t been any news about the lower forty-eight, the other cities, nothing”

“You told us there was progress!” Lancaster momentarily forgot this was his superior and saw only a man who had lied. The unspoken consequences here pounded his brain - there was a line of succession, and if it was quiet, that had to mean _everyone_ was gone. “All those times you told us that this city was contained or that state was doing better, it was all _lies_?” Everything was simple for the first couple weeks. Communication with Governor Eisenberg gave the men a sense of progress and duty. She’d give orders, updates on their attempts to maintain stability around the state, and organize supply drop-offs from the Red Cross. Then, one day of no response turned into thirty three. It had been equally long since they’d received supplies, and just like the world ending, Fort McAdam’s simplicity had gone in a flash. 

“You’re the ones that believed the phones have stayed up all this time.” Reynolds shrugged. “You believed it because you wanted to, and that’s why I fed you all those lines of bullshit in the first place. I had to throw you guys a bone, I had to keep up morale. We had to put these refugees first.” He shook his head, a coldness coming to his eyes. “Those days are over. We are either the National Guard or we are survivors, I don’t see us being both for much longer.”

Lancaster’s heart raced. The world spun as every shred of hope he’d clung to since the start unraveled. “What are you saying?” He regarded the other man with a look of bewilderment, unnerved by his coldness. “I mean, what are you suggesting here?” 

"This place is _ours_ ,” Reynolds said, punctuating each syllable by thumping his fist against his leg. “We're the ones defending this Fort and dealing with the same morons expecting us to pull food out of our ass every day. We're the ones who've tried to make everything okay and it's never enough. We’re the ones who have stuck our necks out for everyone, not knowing if our own families have made it. ” He motioned to himself and then Lancaster. “Me. You. Farris, Hall, Billingsley, and Arnold. Everyone else, well…” Reynolds trailed off and shrugged, relaxing back into his chair. “They’re going to find out how good they had it soon enough.”

Once again at a loss for words, Lancaster couldn’t focus on anything but the sinking feeling in his gut. Reynolds was talking like he wanted to pull some reversed coup on his own people, innocent refugees they were supposed to help. Even worse, Lancaster knew they had truly reached the end of the line. Not just Fort McAdams, but the entire state, maybe even the whole country. Reynolds would never talk like that or do anything to risk his rank unless he knew he could get away with it. Still, Lancaster didn’t want to believe. This was too much to take in at once, too much for him to accept. He had to hope this was just Reynold’s ‘glass half empty’ attitude showing. “Sir...” Lancaster began slowly, knowing he was already treading on thin ice by questioning him. “What if you’re wrong? Maybe the lines are down, or Eisenberg and them got overrun? It doesn’t mean they’re all dead.”

“Wishful thinking is one thing, Lancaster. Reality is another.” Reynolds paused, gnawing his lip for a long moment. “Last I heard, things were not good in Juneau, or Anchorage, or anywhere. So, with that in mind, I know we - well, _you_ have two choices.” He started towards the door that led inside, stopping to turn back towards Lancaster once he reached them. “You have a place here if you want it, but you have to accept what’s going to happen. If you can’t, don’t let the door hit you on your way out.”

“What are you going to do?” Lancaster demanded, shooting to his feet. He was almost afraid of the answer. Was Reynolds just going to tell those people to leave? He was smart enough to know a good portion of them would outright refuse, and then what would he do? Shoot them? The thought sent a jolt of panic through the young Private, making him clench his fists. When Reynolds simply looked him up and down and didn’t respond, Lancaster huffed. “Sir, these people didn’t ask for this any more than we did. I don’t know exactly what you have in mind, but there has to be another way.”

“The times are a-changin’.” A thin smile spread across Reynold’s face. “Sink or swim, kid. It’s up to you.” With that said, he went inside and let the heavy door slam shut. Dirt puffed out from some of the bricks surrounding the jamb.

Leaving was not an option for Lancaster, he knew that much. He had no more survival skills than the refugees. But how could he even consider playing a part in this scheme to send those people to almost certain death, just to save his own ass? Had the world _really_ gone that far down hill? Things were still routine at the Fort. They had a couple of gas guzzling generators that gave them power, reserves that gave them water, and though food was becoming an issue, no one was starving. If the able-bodied survivors took on a bigger role, Lancaster was confident they could continue as they were. But that was not an avenue Sergeant Reynolds would be interested in, however. He’d made it clear he wanted to rule the roost and keep what resources they had for himself. 

Lancaster collapsed back into his chair, watching the sinking sun with a strange sense of knowing. He was not a leader. He was not a survivor. He simply got lucky. These were three facts he had come to accept over the past few months. Now his luck was running out, and he had one hell of a choice to make.  
  


* * *

**FIFTEEN MILES OUTSIDE FAIRBANKS, ALASKA…**

Although he used to be a 'don't talk to me before my third cup of coffee' kind of guy, morning had become Ben Allen's favorite time of day. This was when camp was most like the way it had been when the oil rig was still up and running, when the world still made sense. Sometimes, for just a few minutes, he could pretend everything was normal. Just like before, people lumbered out of their trailers looking to Ben for direction. 

There were only a few marked differences. For one thing, these were not familiar faces. Ben’s crew had been small, six or seven at most, and now he had over a dozen people depending on him. They were people he had known for a couple months at most, folks that had been desperately looking for somewhere to run. Survivors, plain and simple. And of course, while extracting ‘black gold’ from the earth had sometimes felt as dire as life and death with all the money and pressure involved, the responsibilities Ben had now were _much_ heavier on his shoulders.

It almost made him laugh. He thought he’d had it tough before. But what were machinery breakdowns or dealing with demanding superintendents compared to being totally responsible for the survival and wellbeing of so many lives?  
  
Ben walked leisurely through camp, content that with the way everyone else was calmly going about their business, he hadn’t missed anything noteworthy overnight. 

“Good morning, boss.” Samantha gazed down from her sentry post atop the Peterson’s trailer, which was a long, half-dilapidated, boxy thing on short cement pillars. 

She sat in a folding chair with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, flipping through a weathered copy of _Of Mice and Men_. She smiled and said, “You slept late.” She was a moon-faced, porcelain-skinned girl with mousy hair pulled back into a single braid. Guard duty was the one job she volunteered for even though she hadn’t touched a gun in her life. Everybody knew why – it was almost guaranteed to be uneventful. Red Fox Creek sat on the outskirts of Fairbanks, fifteen miles from the city itself. Walkers were rarely a threat and the only people that could find it, even with a map, were those that had worked there.

She smiled sheepishly and hummed for a moment. “It’s a roof over my head, so I guess I can’t complain.”

“Why not? That hasn’t stopped anyone else,” Ben replied, smiling despite himself when Samantha giggled. He glanced around and noticed that while most of the group was up chatting and going about their duties, someone was missing. Ben squinted against the sun, trying to pick his wife out of the various people milling about camp. When he realized she was nowhere in sight, he turned back to Samantha with a frown. He asked, “Have you seen Kate?”

“Nope,” Samantha answered, shaking her head. She abruptly stiffened and held Ben in a wide-eyed, borderline panicked gaze. “If she wasn’t with you...what if something happened to her? I’ve been up here since dawn and haven’t seen her.” 

“Settle down,” Ben said, holding up a hand to stop her from getting too carried away. “She probably just found something to do early this morning. Just let her know I’m looking for her if you see her, okay?” Once Samantha nodded, Ben hurried away before she could jump to any more conclusions. She was a sweet girl, but excitable at the best of times, earning a lot of jokes at her expense from some of the more callous survivors. People forced to spend so much time together were bound to clash, but as long as they didn’t let it interfere with their responsibilities, Ben stayed out of it.

The trailers formed a half-circle against the treeline and all of the grass within had been worn down to dirt from such heavy foot traffic over the past couple months. Ben neared the Evans family, standing together in front of their tent, which was set up near the farthest trailer. They were the first family to join the Wallaces. Clarence towered over the other survivors, much like a mountain. He had a mustache speckled with gray that reminded Ben of a koala bear. 

Eight-year-old Aaliyah, a spitting image of her father with the same dark skin and big brown eyes, clutched Clarence’s arm. “Pleeeease let me go with you, Daddy! I’ll behave!” she whined in a way that made Ben glad he and Kate never had kids.

“You’re staying with me, and that’s the end of it.” Keisha pulled off a pair of gardening gloves and stuck them in her cardigan. Tendrils of wiry, black hair clung to her forehead. “You’re too little,” she said sternly, taking her protesting daughter by the shoulders. “Now, go help Peggy with breakfast.” She steered her towards the picnic table in the center of camp and gave her an encouraging push.

“She could watch,” Clarence said glumly, as though he was just as disappointed as his daughter. “I think it would be good for her.”

Keisha wagged a finger at her husband. “We’ve been over this how many times now? Aaliyah is not mature enough to have anything to do with guns, let alone that rifle you’ve been drooling over.” The assault rifle Jake and Lauren brought back on their last run had been the talk of the camp for days. Guns were easy to come by in Fairbanks and at this point the group practically had an arsenal. Some thought shooting lessons were a no-brainer while others saw it as inappropriate. Everyone stuck to handguns on scavenging trips, so Ben wasn’t sure why Clarence thought an AR-15 was necessary, but he certainly wasn't going to turn down a weapon. They were an integral part of survival whether anybody _liked_ it or not.

Clarence noticed Ben watching their discussion from the sidelines and motioned to him. “Help me out, man. If Aaliyah learns about guns and realizes they aren’t some cool toy, it’ll take the fun out of it. Don’t you agree?”

“Don’t ask me.” Ben held his hands up in surrender. On the surface, Clarence’s idea didn’t seem unreasonable. However, Ben had seen enough of that little girl to know nothing good could come from a hyperactive eight-year-old with a gun. “I don’t know a thing about kids,” he said.

“That’s right.” Keisha’s tone softened, and she smiled. “ _I_ know how kids are. Letting them play with the dangerous thing they’ve been begging you for does not help.” She dismissed Clarence with a brisk wave of her hand. “You better go on, honey. Jake and Lauren are waiting.”

“Hell, Keisha, _I’m_ training them. They aren’t gonna leave without me.” Clarence hesitated for a moment further, moustache squirming above pursed lips. “Just think it over, will you?”

“I’ve thought it over plenty,” Keisha replied firmly. “Now _go_. And be safe.”

As they went their separate ways, Ben backtracked and headed towards the center of camp, where the picnic table was. A wicker basket half full of wild blueberries sat in the center of the picnic table. Peggy Peterson sat on the bench, not looking up from her task of removing the berries from their stems. She was a no-nonsense woman that reminded Ben of his mother...only without any of her more delicate qualities. Her snow-white hair was cropped close to her scalp, and she was content to wear men's hand-me-downs. In the three weeks she’d been with them, Ben had never seen her without her blue flannel shirt, faded, torn, and smelly. Since Peggy and her husband Dean were always up at the crack of dawn, they were happy to take breakfast duty.

“Dean got a bunch of doves this morning,” Peggy said, her voice low. She plucked a handful of blueberries and tossed them into the basket. “Your dad’s down by the creek helping clean them up.”

“How many doves is ‘a bunch’?”

“Not enough for thirteen people.” Peggy shrugged. “Probably seven or eight.”

“Better than nothing, I suppose.” Ben walked onward, out of camp and into the dense woods. _Seven or eight?_ Ben couldn’t help but be frustrated. He didn’t expect Dean to pull off any miracles, but eight winged rats weren’t much considering how low their provisions were. The camp’s isolation was both a blessing as well as a disadvantage. It took so much time and gasoline just to get to Fairbanks and back that they had to make their scavenging trips count. Usually, that was much easier said than done. Any stores not picked clean were crawling with walkers.

Birds sang their cheerful morning songs amongst the spruce trees. All of Ben’s steps kicked up little clouds of dust. Roots from the surrounding aspens protruded along the path, making his descent down the slope like an obstacle course. Muffled voices fought to be heard over the creek’s softly rushing waters.

“You don’t know how to do anything. You’ve got to hold onto the bird while you pluck the feathers,” Dean grumbled. He and Marvin were on their rumps in the mud, a rusty bucket of doves between them. Loose feathers occasionally blew away only to get stuck in the mud or sucked into the creek.

Marvin fired back, “Did you tell me that? No, you just expect me to know everything,”

“Get a clue. You ‘bout threw the thing back to its nest.”

The two of them were so preoccupied that they didn’t even hear Ben approaching. Sometimes he worried they were getting too comfortable. Not just the old timers, but all of them. To live without dealing with walkers daily was luck mixed with survival, and more than likely just a temporary refuge, but not everyone seemed to understand that. Just because they were out in the boonies didn’t mean they were safe.

Ben observed them for a few more moments, then spoke loud and clear. “Looks like you guys had a decent hunt.”

Dean gasped. He scrambled to his feet and sent the bucket of birds skittering across the muddy bank. Marvin fumbled with the skinning knife, eventually dropping it. They both whirled to face Ben, their shocked expressions quickly morphing into indignation. Dean clutched his chest, scowling at Ben. “You almost gave me a heart attack! What’s the matter with you, sneaking up on people?”

“You guys need to be more aware of your surroundings…okay?” Chastising two much older men, one of whom happened to be his own father, gave Ben the willies. He was used to bossing around twenty and thirty-somethings, that came with running a mining crew. Being ‘the boss’ of survivors was something else entirely. “If I could sneak up on you then so could a walker.”

“Got my .38 special right here.” Marvin patted his hip and pushed his glasses back up his hooked nose. “And I appreciate your concern, son, but we don’t need a babysitter.”

“Yeah.” Grunting, Dean dropped to his knees and began tossing the birds back into the bucket. “We’ve already got a lookout. Right, Courtney?”

“Right.” Dean’s teenage granddaughter was crouched fifteen feet downstream, expertly rinsing the freshly plucked doves. Whether it was hunting with her grandfather, watching after Aaliyah, or helping with food prep, she never turned her nose up at work. That, combined with the fact that she stood just a head shorter than her six-foot-tall grandfather, sometimes led Ben to forget she was still just a kid. Four plucked and rinsed birds sat on a clean pan further up the bank. If Peggy’s estimate was correct, they weren’t even half done; by the time breakfast was ready, it would be lunchtime.

“Have you seen Kate?”

“What, she wasn’t with you?” Marvin retrieved the knife and wiped the blade on his pants, smearing thick brown streaks across the faded denim.

Ben shook his head. “I didn’t think anything of it when I first woke up. She’s been having trouble sleeping the last couple nights, goes and sits outside to clear her head now and again. But she’s not in camp and Samantha hasn’t seen her all morning.”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry. She can handle herself.” Dad shrugged.

There was no polite way to deny that about his own wife, so Ben simply nodded. “Yeah, I know”

“Clarence was complaining about a missing walkie earlier,” Dean said. “Try her on that.”

“She never takes a radio.” Despite his skepticism, Ben pulled the radio from the belt of his cargo pants and pressed the talk button. “Calling for Kate, are you there, Kate?” No voices replied, only crackling static. Of course. Kate wouldn’t have a radio. Ben always kept one on him, and the other two stayed in camp unless someone went on a supply run. He decided to humor Dean and try once more. “Kate, are you there?” When he was once again met with nothing but silence, Ben shrugged and started back up the path.

“ _A rainbow showed me the way_.” He hadn’t taken more than two steps before a familiar, yet strangely airy, voice responded. He snatched the radio from his belt and stared at it, wondering if he’d really heard what he thought he had.

“Was that Kate?” Marvin’s furrowed brows created deep lines across his forehead. He abandoned his bird-cleaning job and lumbered up the slope to join Ben. “What the hell is she talking about?” he questioned, regarding his son with a look of disbelief. 

Ben held up a hand for silence and spoke into the radio. “Kate, honey, is that you?”

“ _A rainbow showed me the way_ ,” she repeated cheerfully. “ _You can join me, but just you. You’re the only one who can_.”

“Is this some kind of joke?” Marvin asked, planting his hands on his hips.

Ben shrugged, hardly registering his father’s words. That was definitely Kate, he knew that much for certain. He also knew what it meant when she talked crazy. Something like this had happened once before, when she forgot to pick up her prescription. Realization fell over him in a sickeningly hot blanket, making the knot of worry in his gut explode into full on dread that chilled him from head to toe. How could he be so stupid, how could he _forget_? He pressed the talk button again and asked, “Where are you?”

“ _I can’t stay in camp. It’s not safe there, but it is out here._ ”

“Where is it safe?”

“ _Out here in the scrapyard_.”

“Okay, I’m coming. You stay right there.” Ignoring his father’s confused calls, Ben took off at a run along the unmarked scrapyard trail. Tree limbs whipped him about the face and body every few feet no matter how much he tried to duck or push them aside. He’d walked this path a hundred times before, usually to jimmy-rig a piece of equipment or, in recent months, to discard camp waste. This was the first time he ever worried about what he would find there.

Old, torn apart mining machinery spare parts and scrap metal peeked through the foliage as he reached the scrapyard. Kate sat upon a pile of tires with her legs crossed. She still wore the shorts and t-shirt she had gone to bed in, apparently unbothered by the morning chill. Dirt and leaves speckled her wild blonde bedhead. Ben pushed the gate aside then collapsed against the chain-link fence, chest heaving desperately for air.

She smiled. “Good, they showed you too.”

“Kate…” He panted, pushing off from the fence and plopping down on the tire beside her. He reached out to wrap an arm around her and she pulled away. “Did you forget to take your medication, or are you out?”

She gave him a wounded glare, as though he’d just backhanded her. “I know I’ve had my problems, Ben, but I _saw_ them. They showed me the way out. Everyone hates me, they want me gone.”

“No, I promise that’s not true. You just need your medication.” He shrugged his jacket off and cautiously draped it over her shoulders. This time she allowed his touch, pulling the jacket tighter. “I’m so sorry. This is my fault. I should’ve remembered.”

“I know what I saw,” she repeated, mouth settling into a thin line. “Nobody listens to me. Nobody understands.” Even if she was talking out of her head, there was some truth to her words that left Ben with a heavy feeling of guilt and nothing else to say. This was his wife of sixteen years. They’d been attached at the hip since they were twenty years old. He knew all of her favorite things, the way she liked her eggs, and what kind of jewelry to buy her for their Anniversary. 

A few hours ago, he would’ve called himself a good husband, but none of those little things mattered anymore. The ugly truth was their marriage had taken a back seat to survival. Ever since he became responsible for a whole group, he’d been too busy to do much more than say good morning and good night. He had things to do and people to look after, but he forgot the most important person of all. 

The clustered alder trees along the back fence rustled furiously. Ben pulled the nine-millimeter from his waistband and stepped in front of Kate. A stringy-haired walker pushed through the branches and pressed itself against the fence. Its growling grew louder, more eager as Ben drew closer, only to shoot it point-blank in the face. Half of the walker’s head splattered onto the chain-link and surrounding dirt, then it dropped to the ground.

“See, it’s _not_ safe here. We’re too close to the road.” Walkers had never found the camp, but they occasionally wandered down the main road. The faded asphalt of the highway was visible from the scrapyard, just twenty or thirty feet up the slope. Ben bobbed up and down, attempting to see through the thick foliage and trees. Satisfied that no more walkers were lying in wait, he replaced the gun at his hip and took Kate’s soft hands into his own calloused ones. She wobbled when he pulled her to her feet. “Hey, look at me,” he said, waiting until she complied to continue. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” Her voice conveyed no more emotion than if she were talking about the weather. Frustration bubbled up inside Ben, making him question what he was doing. Did she understand anything he’d said? Was she aware of how dangerous dilly-dallying around in the scrapyard was? If the absent look in her eyes was any indication, the answer to both of those questions was a hard _no_. Trying to talk her out of her delusions would be futile. Sighing, he moved his hands to her face and ran his thumbs along her dirty, gritty cheeks.

“Let’s head back.”

* * *

Ben sat with his head propped against his hand, watching Marvin pace back and forth. He’d been doing this so long Ben was surprised he hadn’t worn a path in the already threadbare carpet of the trailer’s kitchen.  
  
“How could we forget?” Marvin demanded, knotting his fingers in his gray, overgrown crew cut. “My God, why wouldn’t she tell us her pills were running out?”

“Those are both million dollar questions,” Ben answered. He’d found Kate’s empty pill bottle nearly half an hour ago and had been turning it over in his hands ever since. She hadn’t even tried to hide it. She kept her pills in the nightstand in the tiny sleeping quarters at the back of the trailer. Every night, Ben had slept with his head a foot away from something that he should’ve never missed to begin with. 

“What are we gonna do?” Marvin slid into the dinette booth across from Ben. “We can’t keep her locked in here twenty-four-seven, but if we don’t, who knows where she’ll wander off to next time.”

“There’s not going to be a next time,” Ben said. The fact that his father expected anything else cemented his certainty in what he had to do. Marvin seemed to already know where this was heading and pinned his son with an increasingly dubious glare. Ben returned his stare. “I’m going to go find her some more pills tonight.” 

“No way.” Marvin flew from the booth and returned to pacing, now shaking his head with every step. “No, no, no, _hell_ no,” he said, cutting Ben a pained look out the corner of his eye. “You are not leaving this camp tonight.” 

Ben couldn’t help the indignant snort that flew out. No matter how old he got, being told what to do only made him dig his heels in more - his father of all people should’ve realized that. “Dad, I’m forty one years old. I’m not asking for permission here.”

“Just stop, you’re not thinking clearly.” Sighing, Marvin came to rest against the counter, propping himself on his elbows. “We just need to take a few days, think over our options. Rushing out of camp alone, hours from dark, is not the answer here.”

“We don’t have any options,” Ben said.

“Fine.” Marvin shrugged, but his face was still set into a mask of stubbornness. “But if you’re going out there, I’m going with you.”

“No.” Ben’s mind was almost overwhelmed with flashes of the last time he and his father had been in the city together, when Marvin narrowly avoided a chomp on the arm. “I told you before, I need you here when I’m not. Especially now, one of us has to be here for Kate.” 

Marvin muttered something unintelligible under his breath. For a few minutes neither of them moved or spoke, then Marvin broke the silence by slamming his fist on the counter. One of the many decorations Kate had adorned the walls with fell off and tumbled onto the floor. He snatched it back up and scoffed, then flipped it over so Ben could read the ornate lettering: _don’t go away mad, just go away._

“You think that’s some kind of sign?” He asked dryly.

“I’ll be in and out of Fairbanks by morning,” Ben said. “All you have to do is keep her from wandering off. And don’t tell the others anything. I don’t know how they’ll react.” 

Marvin sniggered and crossed his arms. “Oh, well if that’s all…”

Ben grit his teeth, trying to ignore the sensation of heat rising up his neck. “Now is not the time for you to be a sarcastic ass.”

After a beat of hesitation, Marvin returned to his seat at the dinette booth. “Son, I’m sorry. I just don’t want you jumping into a decision that could cost you your life. Where will Kate be then?”

“I don’t think you get it,” Ben said, his voice hardly more than a grumble. “She has schizophrenia. Do you even comprehend how bad this could get?”

A deep, thunderous sound boomed in the distance. The windows rattled in their frames, and a wave of vibrations ran up Ben’s legs. He and Marvin shared a brief, wide-eyed glance with one another, then they were both on their feet.

Ben led the way outside, thrusting the door open. He skipped two out of the three steps to the ground and ran into the clearing. 

Dean hurried from his trailer and joined Clarence and Jake in the shade of the spruce trees. Samantha, Peggy, Lauren, and Keisha sat at the picnic table, their plates forgotten as Samantha pointed frantically towards the sky. She and Keisha were loudly talking over one another, and Ben thought he caught the word ‘explosion’. He moved so he could see where they were pointing, way beyond the rig.

Tall, black plumes of smoke billowed high into the sky along the horizon. Ben swallowed thickly, his throat suddenly bone dry. He was no expert on smoke, but he knew whatever this was had to be more than a simple house fire. Whether it was indeed an explosion or something natural like a wildfire, not knowing the exact source was quickly draining Ben’s confidence. Driving into Fairbanks alone was one thing when all he had to worry about was walkers, but walkers _and_ some mysterious explosion...

“Still going out there?” 

Ben wasn’t sure when his father had came to stand beside him, but his quiet voice asking the one question he didn’t want to think about was almost enough to send him over the edge. He snapped, “Dad, enough.”

The narrow window of the sleeping quarters popped open. Kate leaned out, fighting against the breeze to keep her long, blonde hair out of her face. She asked, “Was that a random, big ass boom or did Clarence just have beans again?”

Her quip sliced through the fear and tension and earned her several laughs, and a good-natured glare from Clarence. Ben even chuckled, despite the situation. _That_ was his Kate. Everything about her was different from the way she’d been before. Her face was surprisingly relaxed, even as she eyed the ever-rising tower of smoke.

“Maybe it was military,” Samantha suggested, glancing at those gathered around hopefully. Nobody else shared her enthusiasm, and Clarence was the only one to even entertain the idea.  
  
“I don’t know,” he said, brushing his fingers over his moustache. “After all this time…”  
  
“Well, I’m pretty concerned by it,” Kate said around a yawn. “I can’t think of any situation where an explosion is a good thing.”

Jake anxiously rubbed the back of his neck. He was a lean, greasy-haired kid who was pale at the best of times, and the concern darkening his face made him look borderline sickly. “Kind of makes me worried about future runs,” he said, glancing nervously at Lauren.

“There’s no need to get in a tizzy over it.” Lauren shrugged. “Whatever it is, I doubt it’s affected the whole city. I’m sure we could handle it.” She was the youngest adult of the group at twenty three years old, which Ben thought was both a blessing and a curse. She had more energy and better eyesight than him, but not nearly enough life experience or wisdom to match her strong and freely expressed opinions. 

Ben could practically feel Marvin staring a hole in him, but he refused to turn around and discuss anything with him. Once his father had his mind made up about something, there was no reasoning with him, and Ben wasn’t in the mood to argue in circles. Not directing his words at anyone in particular, he said, “Let’s not think of it as a good thing or a bad thing. Chances are it’ll never affect us one way or the other.”

“It’s kind of hard to ignore,” Tyrus said, warily watching the plume as it seemed to grow even more.

Returning to her meal, Peggy prodded a piece of dove back and forth with her fork. “There’s plenty of crap around here to focus on. We might as well do that.”

“Don’t you think we should investigate?” Samantha questioned, looking to Ben with wide eyes.

“Nope,” he replied curtly. “Peggy is right. Get on with your lives.”

“Don’t you mean _we_ should investigate, Samantha?” Jake asked wryly, motioning to himself and Lauren. 

Samantha’s cheeks went beet red. “Well...you two know how to handle yourselves in the city.”

“Seems like we’re the only ones.”

“Jake, that’s enough,” Lauren warned, brows knitted together. She was a head shorter than her six-foot roommate but not nearly as brawny. Her skinny jeans were tucked into brown combat boots, and her bomber jacket was two sizes too large and terribly faded.

“Everyone’s here,” Jake countered, motioning towards the group. “What better time to talk about the division of labor?”

“What about it?” Ben demanded. His patience for Jake had been wearing thin for a while. He thought the kid had an ego, and despite being nearly thirty, even less wisdom than Lauren. 

Whether Jake was proud or embarrassed to have all eyes on him, Ben couldn’t tell. He squared his shoulders and held his head high. “Sometimes Clarence comes along, but for the most part it’s just me and Lauren scavenging. We risk our lives to get the things this group needs to survive, then we come back and everyone else is living like we’re in summer camp. Lauren’s the only woman around here that does anything.”

Objections flew from the mouths of every female gathered and a few of the men, but Peggy’s furious hollering drowned all of them out. “Listen here, you goddamn punk. You might think you’re hot shit because you carry a gun and brought us back some toothpaste, but don’t you worry about the rest of us pulling our weight.”

Jake's crooked grin expanded to a laugh. “Of course _you_ are the most offended one here. How was the gin tournament this morning?”

“I’ll give you something to laugh about.“ Peggy shot to her feet, but Keisha calmly pulled her back down.

“Oh, I’m petrified,” Jake sneered. “You know acting like this at your age is just pathetic, right?”

“Okay,” Ben said, raising his voice. “Enough.”

Peggy laughed callously. “Come over here and see if I’m acting.”

Jake snorted, “I’ll knock you on your fat ass.”

At that, Dean stormed forward, tearing past the attempts to stop him, until he’d backed Jake against a tree and they stood nose to nose. “If you ever threaten my wife again - “

“Stop!” Ben yelled, slamming his fist against the side of the nearest trailer. “Believe me when I say I’ll let you know if I think someone’s not pulling their weight. Until then, unless you have something constructive to say, you can keep this shit to yourselves.”

Jake jerked away from Dean, gaze firmly on his shoes. He cleared his throat. “I shouldn’t have brought it up in front of everyone.”

Ben didn’t know if Jake genuinely regretted causing such a mess, or he was just tucking his tail between his legs because he didn’t win. In any case, Ben was over it. There were more important things he had to focus on. Taking a deep breath, Ben pushed down his anger just enough so he could at least act like he cared about anything besides Kate. “As difficult as the smoke is to ignore, we need to carry on,” he said. “Business as usual.”

Slowly but surely, the crowd dispersed. Samantha took guard atop the Peterson’s trailer, Marvin went back inside to join Kate, and Jake stormed off to his and Lauren’s trailer. Ben was left standing alone, his heart lower than ever. At least one person had made it perfectly clear how he felt about those who didn’t - or couldn’t - pull their weight, hadn’t he? 

Ben’s gaze settled on the window Kate had popped out of earlier. He had to wonder, how from that morning did she remember? The few times she had shown symptoms before, she’d never talked about it.

“Ben, you got a minute?” Clarence strolled over, hands tucked in his pockets of his army green cargo pants.

Ben resisted the urge to roll his eyes. There was nothing more he wanted to do than go inside and come up with a plan to help his wife, but it seemed he was going to be prevented from doing so at every turn. He nodded to Clarence, hoping he’d cleared his face of any irritation. “Sure, what do you need?”

“You said you put down a sick one in the scrapyard earlier. I thought we oughta make sure no more have wandered down,” Clarence said. Then, he shrugged and added seemingly as an afterthought, “Besides, it’ll give us a chance to talk.”  
  
“Alright,” Ben said. He and Clarence walked to the ATV side by side, only for both of them to hesitate once they reached it. They eyed the driver’s seat then each other, until Ben finally walked onward and sat down. He waited until Clarence was buckled into the passenger side before he started the engine. He squinted against the sinking sun as he drove out of camp and onto the scrapyard path. 

Once they were well out of earshot from the others, rumbling alongside the creek, Ben glanced at Clarence. “What’s going on?” 

“I think I contribute my fair share to this camp,” Clarence began, voice raised over the grumbling of the motor. “Me and my family are the first ones you brought back here, and I appreciate that. Had you left us on the side of the road like everyone else, Lord only knows where we’d be.”

“What are you getting at?” There was one little detail Ben had never told Clarence, and that was that helping him and his family was entirely Kate’s idea. It wasn’t his proudest moment, but had it been up to Ben, he would’ve driven right past them. By that point, the outbreak had just begun, and he was in survival mode. But Kate...she always had others' best interests first. 

Ben realized with a jolt that Clarence must’ve already answered him, and he’d been zoned out. “Sorry, what?” He inclined his head towards Clarence, as if the ATV was the reason he hadn’t heard him.

“I’ve been left out quite a bit lately, and I don’t care for it,” Clarence repeated, nearly shouting. “Until Samantha brought me that radio Kate took like you asked her to, I hadn’t heard anything about her being sick.” 

Ben’s brows spiked up as he cut Clarence a questioning glance. So what if he hadn’t personally delivered the message that his wife had taken the radio and wasn’t feeling well? Wasn’t that _their_ business? 

Clarence shook his head. “Look, it’s not just today that’s bothering me. Just - slow down will you? I can’t scream the whole time!”

Ben tapped the brakes and parked the ATV a few feet off the creek’s bank. “Let’s just get this over with now. If there are walkers in the scrapyard, they can wait,” he said.

“For the past few weeks, you’ve kinda just been doing your own thing,” Clarence continued as if Ben hadn’t spoken. “A few weeks ago, you decided the guns should be in Jake and Lauren's trailer. That rubbed me the wrong way for more than one reason, but I tried to let it go. Then they bring back Samantha, and you just let that girl take over guard duty. I mean, she’s sweet, but I think she’d crap herself if anything actually happened. Why you let her tote a gun around camp is beyond me.”

“I’m just trying to do what I think is best,” said Ben. “What would you have me do with the guns, stick ‘em in your tent with your eight-year-old? And Samantha, well...Dad hated guard duty, and I don’t know what else she could do.”

“See, that’s the problem.” Clarence waggled a finger in Ben’s face. “You’re just calling the shots.”

“They’re my shots to call,” Ben retorted. His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were bone white. “But you’re right,” he amended quickly, as Clarence had stiffened up and looked ready to ream him. Even if he didn’t believe what he was saying, he’d discussed it for about as long as he cared to. “I shouldn’t cut you out entirely, since you _are_ helping me run this place. I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

“Okay.” Clarence slowly sank back against the seat. “Keisha also wanted me to ask you what we’re going to do with the weather getting so cold, but we can save that for later if you want.”

Ben put the ATV back in gear and started towards the scrapyard, though much slower than they’d been going before. “Tell her I can’t control the weather.”

“Don’t get attitude with me,” Clarence snapped. “We do need to talk about it.”

“Not today we don’t.”

The muscle in Clarence’s jaw twitched and bulged. “Just one more thing, then. Can you at least tell me the truth?”

“About what?”

“At the risk of being rude...what’s really going on with Kate? Based on what I heard from Dean and Samantha, dehydration sure as hell doesn’t fit the bill.”

Ben chewed his bottom lip. If people were already questioning his dehydration story, that wasn’t good. He’d come up with it on a whim, to get Samantha to stop asking so many questions. Clarence was a married man, maybe he’d understand if Ben told him what was really going on. It would make things so much easier if he did, and it’d be good to have a second pair of eyes to watch out for Kate. 

However, he wasn’t certain it was worth the risk to tell Clarence anything about Kate. He was still a survivalist at heart and nothing more, and if he saw Kate as a threat to his family, who knew what kind of steps he’d take? The shield Ben had started to let down shot right back up at that thought. He already knew what he had to do to make sure Kate was protected - tell no one.

Ben kept his voice as nonchalant as he could and said, “Dehydrated, low blood sugar, whatever. You know how it is. You get busy sometimes and forget to eat or drink.”

Clarence’s mustache twitched a second before he grinned. “Okay. If that’s your story.”

Ben sped up again. Leafless branches whipped his arms and face no matter how many times he tried to dodge them. Once they reached the scrapyard, he slowed the ATV and stopped just outside the fence. Clarence led the way through the gate, one hand on his holster. 

Ben trailed after him and didn’t move past a few feet just inside. He stood back, arms crossed. No walkers were in sight, but Clarence walked the perimeter anyway. He stopped at the lone walkers Ben had killed earlier and wrinkled his nose. “Damn that stinks. We need to burn it.”

All of the walkers’s brain matter was dried against the surrounding dirt, while its decayed flesh had cooked in the sun all day. Countless flies buzzed around the remains, and for the first time, Ben found himself relating to a corpse. 

Isolation was just part of his job before. Not just because of the rig’s distance from civilization, but because a lot of people simply didn’t want to befriend the boss, either. But these days, Ben felt more alone than he ever had in his life. No one was on his side, everyone always had a bone to pick, a demand to make, or were disappointed with him for not being their idea of a leader.

Now the one person he had left, his rock for the past fourteen years, was out of her mind. And it was all because of him.

* * *

Peggy plunged her hands into the lukewarm water within the sink, searching between the plates and silverware until she located the sponge. She'd been gunning for paper plates and plastic utensils since the beginning but everyone was so happy to use actual dishes, they wouldn't go for it. Something about 'normality'. Peggy thought those people might feel differently if they were the ones standing on aching feet every night to wash the same damn ugly green plates.

The door squeaked open and Courtney took a step inside. She lingered by the counter for a moment, swaying back and forth, then walked to the other side of Peggy and lifted up a dish towel. She gave a small, sheepish smile. "Need a hand?"

"Sure." Peggy handed off the first washed and rinsed plate.

Courtney ran the towel over and over the plate, staring at it intently. She only set it down when Peggy had extended another for her to dry. "You guys don't have to hide things from me," she said, voice quiet and small.

Peggy rolled her eyes and exhaled loudly. All of a sudden she was parenting a teenager, something she hadn't done since the late seventies. For all of their similarities there were a hundred ways Courtney and her mother were opposites. By this age, Melissa had known better than to interfere in her parent's affairs. "Let me guess, you noticed Grandpa coming in and out of here earlier."

"Heard you arguing, actually." Courtney finished drying the plate and set it on top of the other one, but she still wouldn't look up. She said, "I think _everyone_ heard you... but I only heard a little bit."

"You're fifteen now, so I guess you're old enough for the truth." Peggy yanked a dish out of the sink, sending some of the others clattering against each other and smashing against the metal sides. She scrubbed at nothing and was half surprised the sponge hadn't disintegrated yet.

"Okay," Courtney replied hesitantly. She'd finally chanced a look at her grandmother and now couldn't look away, her hazel eyes rounded and bordering on fearful.

"Your grandfather and I think it's best if we spend some time apart," Peggy said, practically spitting the word 'grandfather'. She ran the dish under lukewarm water, then shoved it at Courtney. "That's awfully difficult to do in a two-room trailer, so we're going to sleep separately for a while."

Courtney tentatively dried off the plate, never tearing her eyes away from Peggy. "Is this about Mom?"

"Of course it is," Peggy snapped.

"He had to do it. She would have turned."

Peggy's heart seemed to skip a beat. There was that word. _Turned_. Spoken with such certainty, as if anything about this fresh hell they'd been plunged into was actually known, as if there wasn't any doubt. Her teeth clamped down so hard against her tongue, she thought she'd bite it in half. She switched the faucet off before she'd even finished rinsing the next dish and dropped it back into the water. "What's the rule?" she questioned.

Courtney wrung the towel between her hands. Her mouth opened and closed without making a sound.

"WE DON'T TALK ABOUT IT," Peggy bellowed. She stormed forward and swept her arm through the stack of dried plates. They flew across the trailer and crashed into the wall, cracking into dozens of green chunks that flew every which way.

"Maybe I want to talk about it!" Courtney had pressed herself against the counters as much as she could, shrinking back from Peggy, but her voice nearly matched her grandmother's now. "That was my mom!"

"And you're okay that your grandfather blew her brains out," Peggy hissed. "What does that say about _you_?" Tears welled in Courtney's eyes. Her bottom lip quivered. Peggy scoffed. "Don't cry now or I'll give you something to cry for," she said. "If I talked to my grandma the way you talk to me, I'd have been backhanded into a past life. You should count your lucky stars I'm not that kind of person."

Courtney sniffled as tears streamed from her eyes, dripping off her jaw. Hands on her hips, Peggy moved towards her until they were less than a foot apart and spoke through gritted teeth. "I've tried to forgive him, I really have. But your grandfather is a murderer. He _murdered_ my girl, shot her right in the head." Peggy leaned down until they were nose to nose. Her voice was hardly above a whisper when she said, "He disgusts me, and _you_ disgust me for supporting him."

Courtney's breath increased to wheezing puffs until she'd broken down into sobs. She tore away from her grandmother and dashed out of the trailer, not even bothering to shut the door.


	2. Life is the Traveler

Fort McAdams was supposed to be a sanctuary for the state of Alaska. _The_ sanctuary, in fact. It was the only place Jerome, Rachel, and Emma Dufour had known since 'the outbreak' was just mandatory evacuations and weird rumors in their rural neighborhood. There had never been any reason for Jerome to do anything but listen to the radio broadcasts and texts urging people to distance themselves from the sick, to head to the Fort.

And now it was gone. Just like that, Jerome and his family were thrust into the terrifying shell of a place they had once called home. All he remembered from the past three hours were flashes of terrible things he knew would stay with him forever.

Jerome hadn't known what to do so he'd just kept driving. As long as they were going faster than the walker, they were safe, or at least it felt that way. They had no other plan. Fort McAdams was supposed to be their last stop until things went back to normal. But now the needle in the gas gauge was edging towards _E_ , so Jerome had no choice but to pull into an abandoned gas station on the outskirts of Fairbanks.

Nobody had said a word for at least an hour, and this still silence continued as the family of three eyed the surroundings outside their windows. Two bodies wrapped in bloodstained sheets were propped up against the building. The gas station itself looked like every other building they had passed. Grimy, abandoned cars, withering weeds that had become overgrown during the last leg of summer, long-forgotten litter dotting the parking lot, busted windows.

Jerome frowned as he looked at his wife. "Looks like there's no power here, so the pumps won't work. We'll have to figure something else out." He blew out a disappointed breath. "I'm gonna go look around inside and see what's left to eat."

"Okay, honey. Be careful. I think we'll get out and stretch our legs." Rachel unbuckled her seatbelt and turned to face their daughter in the back. "You stay right by my side."

The ten-year-old only nodded, causing her parents to share a look of concern. "How are you holding up, my chérie?" Jerome asked. He'd moved to the United States from France at thirteen and spent many years in the Chicago suburbs before moving to Alaska, yet his accent never faded. Most of the time, he forgot he had one, but the little French phrases and pet names from his childhood had always stuck with him.

"Fine," Emma answered. "I guess I'm a little hungry."

"I'm sure I'll find something," he said, flashing her a smile before hopping out of the Humvee.

Alaska was on the edge of autumn and as such, the heavily wooded area surrounding them was a mixture of golds, reds, and oranges. Somehow nature seemed more beautiful than ever, and Jerome couldn't help but admire the scenery as he walked towards the gas station. However, as he neared the doors, dread crept over him. None of them had eaten in close to a day. The Fort cut them back to two meals a day, and then _whatever_ had happened was before breakfast. He doubted there was even a candy bar left untouched.

Something rustled inside the darkened building. Jerome halted, already knowing what was coming. The putrid stench of body odor and decor hit him first. He stuffed his nose into the crook of his arm and hurried backwards as two biters stumbled into sight, trudging eagerly over the shattered glass. A white froth dribbled down their chins as chilling groans and rasps slipped from their blue lips.

"Get in the Hummer," Jerome called.

Rachel flew around to the passenger side of the vehicle with Emma close behind. The walker neared him with increasing speed, their arms swinging wildly. Jerome wracked his brain for a way to deal with them, slowly backing away. He'd made it this far without killing, a fact that had earned a lot of disbelief at the Fort, but he knew it was time to stop running.

All he had was the Ka-Bar knife he'd managed to sneak into the Fort and escape with, but he didn't think it was smart to get that close. The guards at Fort McAdams had usually used guns, anyway.

The faster of the two infected made a terrible croaking sound, wild eyes locked onto Jerome, then it lunged towards him. Jerome leapt out of the way just in time. The other one closed in, gasping eagerly and reaching towards him with filthy, gnarled hands.

"Papa!" Emma shrieked, garnering the attention of the one that had lunged. Instead of going after Jerome again, it roared and bounded over to the Humvee to pound at the window.

Jerome's heart surged into his throat. He wanted nothing more than to run over there and tear it away from his family, but he knew he had to be smarter than that. He rushed to one of the abandoned cars and circled it, searching for an unlocked door. Much to his relief, the passenger side opened first try. He pulled the glove box open and rifled through the maps and parking tickets. When it became clear there was no gun hiding in there, he climbed in far enough to search under the seats.

All he found there were fast food wrappers and more parking tickets. He quickly backed out of the car and away from the rapidly approaching lone infected, to the trunk. He popped it open with his knife and nearly melted in relief when he saw a crowbar inside.

Trembling hands wrapped around the makeshift weapon, Jerome braced himself for a fight. Despite the adrenaline and terror coursing through him, he froze as soon as the infected staggered into striking distance. Those bloodshot, blank eyes staring at him used to belong to a _person_. Someone's daughter, or spouse, or sister.

"I'm sorry," Jerome whispered, then swung the crowbar with all his might. He smacked its skull with enough force to send the crowbar flying out of his hands and clanging across the cement, yet it only seemed to anger the infected. It snarled furiously and followed Jerome's every move as he dashed over and retrieved the crowbar. This time, he gripped it a little farther down the shaft when he swung. The impact stung his hands but did much more damage to his assailant. The walker's head cracked where he'd struck it. Blood splattered onto Jerome and everything around him as he swung again, and again, and again – until it finally fell to the ground, barely recognizable as human.

Across the lot, Rachel repeatedly thrust the driver's side door of the Hummer outward, smashing the creature against the gas pump. It was unphased and fought towards her every time she retracted the door, clawing wildly at the window. "Get away from them!" Jerome bellowed, even though he knew it would do no good. He darted over and used all the strength he had to drive the forked end of the crowbar into the back of its skull. The wet moaning sounds stopped abruptly. The infected faltered, then dropped to the ground.

Rachel left the door hanging open as she fell against the seat, wheezing and sweeping stray hairs off her sweaty, pallid face. Emma was on the floor of the passenger seat with her arms wrapped around her knees, wide eyes flicking back and forth between her parents.

The crowbar slipped from Jerome's suddenly limp hands and clattered to the ground. His stomach turned at the blood covering his torso, way too dark to be from a living person, yet he'd just beat it out of _something_ that resembled a human. "Jesus Christ," he panted. Despite his efforts to compose himself, his eyes burned with tears, and his throat was growing tighter by the second. Rachel clambored from the vehicle and wrapped both arms around his middle, burying her face against his neck.

Whatever had allowed him to hold himself together broke, and he had no control of the sobs that escaped him. He clung to Rachel, feeling that her presence was the only thing keeping him from slipping away. Emma joined them after a while, pressing against her parents and wrapping an arm tightly around each. They hadn't had time for reality to sink in, or even to grieve what was now their past. Hundreds of thoughts soared through Jerome's frazzled mind, rendering him unable to focus on anything more than a few seconds.

Everyone they'd ever known was probably dead. There was nowhere left to run to. Where were they going to go? What were they going to do about food, shelter, supplies, _survival_ in the long term? Did safety even exist? Was anybody working on a cure? What the hell were they going to do?

Jerome wasn't sure how long they stood there, but after he'd managed to calm down enough to exhale without weeping, he knew they had to get going.

After finding and devouring whatever snacks they found in the gas station, the Dufour family sat inside the Humvee. None of them looked forward to getting back on the road, least of all Jerome. Decision making was not his forte, especially when their lives may depend on it. They'd spent the last few hours just trying to find food and fuel, but now it was time to think ahead.

"So…" he began, turning a dark, questioning eye to his wife. "Where do you think we should go?"

Surprised by his question, Rachel blinked. "I thought it was clear we're going to my sister's."

"Who said that?" Jerome asked. "The only plan we've ever had is the Fort, we never talked about what would happen after."

She didn't reply, just settled back against her seat and sighed.

"To tell you the truth, I don't think we could make it three hundred miles," Jerome said, regretting the bluntness of his words as soon as they slipped out. He hadn't meant to be so pessimistic in front of Emma, but Rachel's sister lived in Anchorage, and that was a whole lot of unknown territory to travel with next to no supplies.

"What other choice do we have?" Rachel demanded. She briskly tucked a stray lock of auburn hair behind her ear, not moving her piercing glare for a second.

Jerome shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He had a feeling he knew how Rachel would feel about the one and only idea he had. "Well, I was thinking about the rig," he began, and as expected, Rachel's face contorted in horror. "It's secluded, there's shelter and supplies…" he trailed off, knowing he didn't have to tell her the rest. She'd been to the oil field plenty. Jerome had worked there for the past three years, spending ample time working his tail off in the wilderness.

"The _rig_?" Rachel repeated, her mouth agape. "That's your big idea?"

"I think it's perfect," he replied, growing a little defensive. "You know there's not going to be anyone else there, it isn't on a map. As long as we have a vehicle and can stock up on food, it could last us until this all blows over."

Around a mouthful of Bugles, Emma suggested, "Maybe everything is okay at the Fort now. We could go back."

Oh, the naivety of children. Jerome was somewhat relieved by Emma's proposition. At least he knew that the chaos hadn't traumatized her too much. "I don't think so," he answered, then, leaning closer to Rachel, lowered his voice so only she could hear. "If I thought we could make it to your sister I'd do it in a heartbeat. But I think the rig is all we've got."

"Maybe you're right." Not sounding at all satisfied, Rachel shrugged.

"Don't you know I'm always right?" Jerome's attempt to lighten the mood didn't do the job, and Rachel just rolled her eyes.

"Let's get going," she said. "We can try to pick up a few more things and make it there before dark if we're lucky."

Jerome started the engine and rolled out, gravel and dust trailing behind him. After driving for another half an hour, they were officially in the city of Fairbanks. Buildings straight out of the gold rush era sat on either side of the abandoned streets. A few undead stood along the sidewalks here and there, hunched over with their arms dangling before them. Jerome continued until they were out of sight, refusing to stop and risk dealing with them unless there was something actually worth stopping for.

Aside from the scenery, one nice thing about the apocalypse was being the only one on the road. Jerome made it to the shopping plaza in record time. Before, it would've taken another thirty minutes. He pulled up next to the privacy fence of the neighboring building, just far enough from the parking lot to see without being seen. Jerome counted _one, two, three, four, five, six_ , _seven_ infected before he lost track.

"Damn," he sighed. Fairbanks Plaza was the one place he knew in the city like the back of his hand. Without maps or GPS, he had no idea where to go next and driving in circles didn't seem like a wise choice. Though he'd lived in the area for much of his adult life, he liked to stick to the rural areas. Unfortunately, he doubted there would be anything out there.

"The shops look untouched," Rachel said. She pointed towards the far end of the plaza, where several shops sure to house survival gear stood in shockingly good condition. "If we can find a way around those goons, we might've hit the jackpot."

"How many of _them_ thought the same thing?" Something about them mesmerized Jerome. Unaware of his presence, they stumbled back and forth aimlessly. What went on in their heads when they weren't locked onto prey? Did they think? Was their humanity trapped inside there, like someone in a coma?

"I think it's worth a shot," Rachel insisted. "We can't afford to keep running. Just got to get this over with and get to the rig." Her lips quirked when she mentioned the rig, like the word left a foul taste in her mouth.

Unconvinced, Jerome tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he thought. On one hand, there was enough to loot in that mall to keep them stocked for a month. On the other, he wasn't sure it was worth risking their lives to get it.

"It should be easy enough to sneak around them," Rachel continued, her tone something like when Emma was little and had to be bribed to eat her dinner. "Besides, that crowbar seemed like a pretty good weapon."

Jerome groaned and slapped a hand to his head. Sure, the crowbar was a good weapon, but it was laying in a gas station parking lot twenty miles back.

"You forgot the crowbar," Rachel deduced, huffing irritably.

Emma said, "What about your knife, papa?"

Jerome cringed. A ten-year-old should never have to assist her parents in figuring out how to defend themselves so they could loot a store. Nevertheless, she had given him an idea. "Get the duct tape, Emma."

Jerome reached into the side of his boot and retrieved the knife. Its black blade glistened in the sunlight, blood from that morning dried brown. He gently opened the door and slid out.

Rachel gaped at him, her mouth hanging open. "What the hell are you doing?"

" _Shhh_!" He hissed. To his relief, none of the infected were even looking in their direction. He crept a few feet down the sidewalk to a tree and braced the knife against a branch just thick enough to serve as a spear. He sawed it from the tree in only a few seconds, then chopped the leafy end off before returning to his vehicle.

Jerome took the duct tape from Emma's outstretched hand. Holding the stick between his knees, he lined up the knife at the end of it and wrapped duct tape around and around until he was certain it would hold. "Hopefully this will work."

Rachel unbuckled her seatbelt and found Emma's eyes in the rearview mirror. "You know the drill."

"Stay right by your side, I know," Emma sighed.

Jerome tapped his fingers nervously against the stick. "Noise seems to get them going. We need to move fast and quiet."

Rachel pointed somewhere a few feet beyond the Humvee, where a cement retaining wall bordered either end of the parking lot. "If we crouch along that wall, I bet we can sneak right past them and go in through the back."

"That'll work," Jerome agreed. They filed out of the car stepping as lightly as they could manage, tensely easing the doors closed before gathering on the sidewalk. Jerome took the lead, with Rachel and Emma right behind him. They crouched down and scurried over to the barrier. Jerome peeked over the top and saw the infected were still unaware, then continued.

As they approached the end of the wall and the backlot of the building came into view, Jerome stopped. A single infected stood a few feet from the door, wearing a torn and tattered security guard uniform. A gun sat snugly in a holster on its hip.

"You stay here while I take care of him," Jerome whispered. Rachel nodded and pulled Emma closer.

Jerome hurried forward and made it just past the corner of the building before the infected noticed him. Its teeth gnashed together as it desperately started towards Jerome. He thrust his makeshift spear right between the biter's eyes, only for the knife and duct tape to fold and fall to the ground. "Shit!" Jerome exclaimed, scrambling away from the biter's grabbing hands.

"They heard you," Rachel said, her voice taut with barely contained panic. "They're coming!"

The moans and snarls grew louder as the mob of walkers drew closer. Jerome skirted around the security guard's clawing hands and retrieved his knife. He pushed the stick against the walker's chest until it was backed against the wall of the building. Barely evading the snapping teeth, Jerome sprang forward and drove his knife into its skull.

Just as the body hit the ground, five more came around the corner.

"Come on!" Jerome called to his family. He snatched the revolver from the security guard's holster and hurried to the door. When Rachel and Emma joined him, they rushed inside together. Around them was nothing but shelves and cardboard boxes. They'd stumbled into the storage room of a clothing shop, by the looks of it. The only source of light came from the hopper windows at either end of the small room.

Before they even had time to catch their breath, the infected were slamming against the door. Rachel jumped into action and barricaded it with one of the shelves. The shelf rocked back and forth as the door creaked against the pressure. "They just don't stop," she said. "That shelf isn't going to hold for long, we need to go."

Jerome nodded, giving the gun in his hands a nervous once over. He'd only ever used a gun once in his life, and that was on a hunting excursion when he was fourteen years old. He found the button that opened the chamber and was relieved to see four bullets. "Stay behind me," he said.

He walked to a set of double doors and tried to peek through the windows. Beyond them was almost nothing but darkness, a few spots of sunlight striping the abyss. Jerome slowly pushed one of the doors open and was thankful to hear silence. They continued through the shop, not stopping to scavenge since there was nothing but clothes and accessories around.

As they passed the register and approached the main entrance, Rachel walked over to a map of the mall near the door. She found the 'you are here' dot and tapped a store two squares down. "Bass Pro Shops. I bet there will be some stuff we can use there."

"Definitely." Jerome cracked the door open just enough to see out the parking lot. To his relief, not a single infected was in sight. He motioned for Rachel and Emma to follow and led the way outside, keeping his back against the building as they hurried down the sidewalk. They passed another clothing store before reaching their goal in the form of a large, cabin-like building labelled _Outdoor World_. Jerome stepped up to one of the front windows and peered inside. Though it was dark, he didn't see any movement inside, so he tentatively led the way in.

At first, they just wandered past boats and clothing, then Jerome saw it: the hunting and firearms section. Dozens of guns inside glass cases, shelves upon shelves of ammunition, racks of rifles, and hunting knives hanging from hooks. All of it untouched. Jerome and Rachel shared a look of disbelief before they rushed forward. Rachel moved to a display of outdoor backpacks and tossed one to Jerome before grabbing one for herself. "This is amazing," she said, smiling broadly.

"Let's take only what we need," Jerome said. "I feel guilty enough we can't pay for anything."

"Jerome," Rachel said, her tone near scolding. "Screw that. No one's going to come in here and arrest us, I promise."

"I know that, but shouldn't we leave something for other people?"

"We can't take it all anyway, there's too much." Rachel perused the aisle, stopping at a section of ammunition. "We should take everything we can carry."

"Papa look what I found." Emma appeared at the end of a gun display holding two heavy duty flashlights. She pushed the buttons and they both turned on, bright LED beams slicing through the darkness.

Jerome couldn't help but smile. He held the bag open. "Nice find, my chérie! Toss 'em in."

Rachel had moved to a long glass gun case, staring longingly at the firearms within. "Do you think it'll make too much noise if I bust it?"

"As far as we are into the store, I don't think so," Jerome said. Rachel took a rifle from a nearby rack and only slammed the butt against the case twice before the glass shattered. Jerome came and helped her clear the rest of the glass. Together, they popped the trigger-guards off their selected pistols and sent Emma to find the corresponding ammo.

Once both of their bags were weighed down with their loot and Jerome had snagged a couple rifles, he led the way to the next section. "There has to be food somewhere in this place," he commented, peRachelg around for anything besides clothing and fishing equipment. They wandered down a few more aisles before coming across a food display. It was mostly snacks and junk food but Jerome filled Emma's backpack anyway.

"Not a bad haul," Jerome said. As he, Rachel, and Emma neared the front of the store, the mood was considerably lighter than when they'd entered. Just as Jerome was about to push the door open, he froze at the sound of distant gunfire. His brows furrowed deeply. "Do you think – " his sentence was cut short by an explosion unlike anything Jerome had ever experienced. The blast boomed against his chest and sent all three of them flying to the ground. Glass rained down as every window in the building blew inward.

Jerome forced his stinging, watering eyes open. Rachel and Emma were lying a few feet away, slowly getting to their feet. Rachel's eyes locked with his. Her lips moved, but Jerome couldn't make out any words over the shrill ringing in his ears. He stood and willed his legs not to buckle, trying to figure what the hell had just happened.

Rachel shoved her hand in his face and snapped her fingers. When they eyes locked, she pointed outside, and the ringing subsided just as she screamed, "Run!" A dozen or more biters surged through the dust and debris. Still dazed, Jerome fumbled to get the revolver from his waistband. His hand shook when he tried to line up the leading biter in his sights. He fired twice, both rounds missing the mark.

"Just go, we can outrun them!" Rachel yelled. Glass crunched under their feet as the family ran out through the open frames that used to be doors. The formerly pristine plaza resembled a warzone. The windows of every neighboring shop laid shattered on the ground, biters stumbling out from the holes. Splinters of wood and other building materials fell around them. As Jerome managed to shoot a nearing biter in the chest, he peered through the haze to find the source of squealing tires. A short school bus sped across the street and into the parking lot, swerving around biters and debris. Jerome stepped in front of Emma as the bus slid to a halt mere feet from them.

The doors popped open. A young man sat in the driver's seat. "Get in!" he hollered. The biters were too close for them to run, and Jerome had no time to consider anything else. He dragged Emma along with him onto the bus. The stranger pressed a button and snapped the doors shut as soon as Rachel was inside. Biters pounded against the door and began to climb onto the hood.

"Hang on," the man said. He shifted gears and stomped the pedal. Jerome fell to the floor with his wife and daughter as the bus lurched forward. Several of the biters were plowed down, sickening crunches replacing their groans.

Just as Jerome managed to get himself to his knees, a woman stomped forward from the back of the bus. She shoved the muzzle of a pistol against his temple. "Move again, and I'll blow your brains out," she spat from between clenched teeth. Jerome didn't dare move a muscle. This woman was not messing around. That much was clear from the way she looked at him, fury and distrust shining in her eyes. Her black, unkempt hair fell around her face and gave her the appearance of some wild woman.

"Carmen, stop it," the driver groaned.

Rachel gingerly raised her hands in surrender. "We don't want to - "

"Bitch, did I ask for your opinion?" Carmen jammed the gun against his head.

"Leave my dad alone!" Emma said, right before bursting into tears. She pressed close to her mother's side.

"God dammit," the driver sighed. He stopped the bus right in the middle of the road and stomped over to their captor, hand outstretched expectantly. "Come on, I warned you. Give it."

Carmen made no move to hand the gun over. "I told you not to help them," she barked, spraying Jerome with spittle.

"And I told you to stop it," he replied. "You're scaring the kids."

Carmen grudgingly shoved the gun into his hand. She stormed back to her seat at the end of the bus and plopped down beside a little boy. He was no more than four or five years old and sat with his knees pulled up to his chest. Tears welled in his eyes but did not overflow. The man slid the gun onto the dashboard then extended a hand to Jerome.

"I'm sorry about her." Jerome allowed the stranger to pull him to his feet. The handguns, ammo, and flashlights in his bag had squashed all feeling out of shoulders. Unable to take it anymore, he shrugged it off and set it in the closest seat. The man leaned down face-level with Emma, ignoring the way Rachel pulled her a step backwards. "You don't have to be scared, okay? I didn't help you just to let my sister hurt you."

Rachel glared at him and guided Emma to the nearest seat. "I sincerely hope not," she said.

He sighed, shifting awkwardly. "Let's start over. My name is Brandon Woods. That's my sister, Carmen, and my son, Adrian."

Jerome always tried to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. Although the alternative was worse, Carmen's actions combined with the 'lights are on but nobody's home' look in her eyes almost made him wish they'd never got on the bus. After a moment of hesitation, he shook Brandon's outstretched hand. "I'm Jerome Dufour," he said, finding his voice surprisingly weak. "This is my wife, Rachel, and our daughter Emma."

"Nice to meet you," Brandon replied cheerfully. "What's that accent?"

"Oh, I'm French," Jerome said, surprised Brandon would ask about it just then. "I've lived in the U.S. longer than I haven't, but I guess the accent's for life."

"That's cool," said Brandon, nodding. "My mom was a Filipino immigrant."

Carmen called, "Are we gonna make a family tree, or would you like to get us away from those walkers?" The remaining parking lot biters ambled towards them. They weren't close enough to worry Jerome, but he just wanted to get away from that god-forsaken plaza before anything else happened.

"Right." Brandon returned to the driver's seat. He had a red bandanna tied around his head to contain his shoulder-length black hair. "Make yourselves comfortable," he said, pulling the gun from the dashboard and sticking it somewhere inside his denim jacket.

Jerome couldn't look away when Brandon turned on the window wipers. Guts, blood, and God knows what else smeared back and forth. Some chunks fell off while others just seemed to only get ground in. His gaze moved from the mess to the biters in the parking lot, now a few yards behind them. Some of the ones that had been crushed during their escape laid in piles. He wasn't able to tear his eyes away until Brandon put the vehicle back in gear and drove on.

Emma seemed to have calmed down just as quickly as she'd been upset. She was seated across the aisle from her father, digging around in a backpack. "Want some jerky, Papa?"

"Yes, please." Jerome caught the pack she tossed him and tore it open. The delectable smell of meat flooded his senses, waking his growling stomach.

No sooner than Rachel sat down beside him, she gasped. "Your arm!"

Jerome looked down to see the sleeve of his left arm saturated with blood. Panic surged through him as he dropped the jerky and fumbled to pull up the sleeve, mind racing for any moment where he could've been bitten. He winced as the cloth scraped over the wound, realizing that was the first time he'd felt any pain. A gash lay beneath, whelped and bloody. Shards of glass embedded in his skin twinkled like glitter. Jerome deflated against the seat, grateful it wasn't a bite.

"What's going on?" Brandon asked, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds.

"Jerome's got a pretty bad cut from the glass," Rachel said, hands hovering over his arm. "Do you have any tweezers?"

Carmen rushed forward and peered over the seat, so close her breath brushed Jerome's hair. "It is a cut," she confirmed.

"No tweezers, sorry." Brandon sighed. "All of our first aid stuff got used up a while ago."

"We've got bigger things to worry about right now." Jerome gently pushed away his wife's prodding hands and went back to his jerky, taking extra care not to bump his arm. "Does anyone know what that was back there?"

No one answered for a few moments, until Brandon said, "Gas explosion? That's the only thing I can think of."

"Was that you shooting?" Rachel asked. "We heard gunfire right before the explosion."

"Yeah, a couple walkers jumped out at me," he answered glumly. "But I don't think we're what caused it, because you guys look a lot worse off than us."

Jerome choked down a dry mouthful of jerky. "How did you know we were there?"

"We were raiding the apartment building across the street. I was upstairs when I saw you guys drive up," said Brandon. "We were just about to head out when everything happened."

Carmen sniggered. She leaned further against their seat. "My good Samaritan little brother couldn't mind his own business."

"Well...I'm glad," Rachel said, warily side-eying Carmen. "You wouldn't believe the day we've had."

"Are you guys staying somewhere around here?" Brandon asked. "I can drop you off if it's not far."

"Uh..." Rachel shared a hesitant look with Jerome. "Not really."

"No? Where are you from then?" Brandon swerved around a walker in the road, everyone leaning with the motion.

Jerome said, "We were at the refugee center, Fort McAdams. Someone came in and told us we had to leave, then someone started shooting. It was all downhill from there." Letting strangers know how vulnerable they were didn't seem wise, yet it felt wrong to lie to a person that just saved his family's lives. Even so, they didn't have to know all the details.

"No shit? Oh man." Brandon ran a hand down his face, suddenly dispirited. "That's been our goal since the beginning. We came all the way from Palmer."

" _Your_ goal," Carmen corrected. "Guess it's a good thing we never made it there. I told you those places are doomed."

Brandon stayed quiet. He pulled the bus over and turned to face Jerome. His face was much gloomier than it had been minutes before. "To tell you the truth, we're just drifters. We do what we can and live out of this bus. If what you're saying about Fort McAdams is true...we don't really have a plan B. So, if there's somewhere you'd like to be dropped off, don't be shy."

"Hey, watch it," Carmen snapped. She gripped the seat until her knuckles went white. "I know we're on a bus but we aren't public transit."

"What do you want me to do, drop them off on the side of the road?"

"Sure, go ahead!"

"We actually have a plan B," Jerome interrupted their arguing and ignored the horrified, shocked glare Rachel was sending his way. "I was a miner, and I think our last site is perfect. That's where we were headed."

"A miner?" Brandon snorted. "I didn't know people still did that."

Jerome couldn't help but laugh. Mining had been his life for so long it was hard to imagine that some people still thought of it as pans and pickaxes. "Well, we do. Red Fox Creek is about thirty miles from here. It took me two hours to find it the first time."

Brandon anxiously ran a hand through the hair that wasn't contained within his bandana. "I'm sorry, but thirty miles is a long way…"

"Wait a minute," Carmen held her hand up. "This place sounds pretty good. Since my brother so graciously risked his life to save yours, I don't think it'd be too much to ask if - "

"We agree," Jerome interrupted. "You're welcome to stay with us if you like the place."

"Good call, Frenchie." Carmen slapped him on the shoulder and returned to her seat.

"You're a good guy," Brandon said. "I appreciate you giving us a chance after...you know. Not everyone has been so kind."

_If you know what I did to escape the Fort, you wouldn't think of me as kind._ Heat rushed up Jerome's neck at the thought. He mumbled a quick response before turning his attention to Rachel. She tentatively lifted his arm, studying the gash pensively. What hadn't been absorbed by his sleeve had dried on his arm, a bright scarlet color against his porcelain complexion. "Think I'll need stitches?"

"We should just focus on getting the glass out," she said. Jerome took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. Being a clumsy man, this was the third time in his life he'd gotten glass into some part of his body. At least this time it wasn't his fault, but he didn't look forward to whatever makeshift solution Rachel had in mind.

"There has to be a pharmacy around here somewhere," said Brandon. "We should look for some more supplies anyway."

"You don't have to stop just because of me," Jerome replied, practically feeling Carmen bristle at the idea. "I'll be fine.

Brandon waved his hand dismissively. "Dude, it's nothing. We're used to going somewhere, getting what we need, and getting out. It hasn't killed us yet."

"You could get a pretty nasty infection if you don't take care of it," Rachel added.

Jerome decided to stop fighting it. As much as he hated being the center of attention, he also hated the thought of glass indefinitely embedded in his skin. He turned his attention to Rachel, noticing with a sinking feeling that she wasn't looking so hot herself. There were a few thin cuts along her cheek and a reddening patch along her arm that would surely turn into a bruise. "You got pretty banged up too," he said, running a calloused thumb along her injured cheek.

"I'll be fine after we're somewhere safe, and I get a good night's sleep," she said, patting his leg reassuringly.

* * *

The bus sped around town for the remainder of the morning. Since nobody knew the area very well, especially since they were constantly having to turn back thanks to car pile-ups and blocked roads, finding a pharmacy took much longer than expected. By the time Brandon found a small shopping center, they were on the edge of town and the sun was well into the sky.

Judging by the items littering the floor as Jerome, Rachel, and Emma walked inside the pharmacy, the building had been picked over several times. Jerome led the way, creeping forward one hand on the gun at his hip and the other across Emma's chest to keep her from rushing past him. He would have preferred to leave her somewhere safe, but there was no way he was going to leave her on the bus with Carmen. Even if she did seem devoted to watching her nephew, there was something feral about her that he didn't trust.

Behind the checkout counter, a single biter started at the sight of the living, snarling hungrily and staggering across the sun-dappled floor. The torn t-shirt it wore exposed a jagged, oozing bite wound. Jerome found he couldn't look directly at it for too long. This had been a teenage boy once, probably not long ago. His clothes were actually cleaner than Jerome's. "Stay back," he told Emma, pulling the revolver from his hip.

"Wait." Rachel put a hand on his wrist. "Let me do it."

"Are you sure?"

"You shouldn't have to do it every time." Her eyes flashed from her husband to the nearing biter. "Just give it here, he's getting closer."

Jerome handed her the gun, then took Emma by the shoulders and turned her to face the opposite direction. "Hands over your ears and eyes shut," he said, knowing faintly that this was foolish. She had already seen more gore than anybody should in a lifetime, and her innocence wouldn't be preserved for much longer...but he wasn't ready to give up. Rachel raised the gun and found the biter's head in her sights, but she hesitated. "Hurry," Jerome urged, his heart racing as he watched the biter come closer and closer.

Rachel pulled the trigger and flinched at the bang. Her bullet missed the mark, piercing the _t_ in _prescription_ on the back wall. Unphased by the shot, the biter continued forward, groans growing more desperate with each step that brought him closer to a meal. Rachel took a few steps back and tried again. This time, the bullet hit its mouth. A few teeth and most of his jaw fell to the floor with a _plop_ , but it kept coming. One final shot and the biter dropped, dead for good. Brain matter trickled out of the new gap in his skull onto the tile, turning off-white to maroon. "Piece of cake." Rachel smiled, though the trembling of her hand as she handed the weapon back to Jerome told him otherwise.

The pharmacy's front doors burst open as Brandon barreled inside, stopping just in time to avoid plowing Rachel down. "What the hell are you doing?" He demanded, scowling at the pistol in her hand.

"She put down a biter," Jerome answered, sharing a perplexed look with his wife. What were they supposed to do, slow dance with it?

"Maybe you didn't notice, dude, but gunshots are loud. Walkers come to noise like moths to a flame." Upon realizing he was raising his voice, Brandon backed down. "I'm not trying to be an ass, it's just...don't you have a knife?"

Rachel huffed, regarding Brandon with furrowed brows. "Do you really expect us to get that close to those things? If that works for you that's fine, but we have no intention of becoming food today."

Brandon ran a hand down his face. "Just hurry, please. We don't know what'll happen now." He was almost out the door when he turned back and added, "And tell my sister it was right on you, or you'll never hear the end of it."

"Got it." Rachel pursed her lips.

They continued through the shop and found most of the shelves either bare or with little more than makeup or lotion, things that were left behind in favor of necessities. While Jerome rummaged through a few random boxes of over the counter medications on the floor, Rachel came to his side. "Looks like this is the best we're going to find," she said, holding up a nail care kit and a smushed tube of triple antibiotic ointment.

"Going to do your nails later?" Jerome asked, smiling when she rolled her eyes.

"There are tweezers in here. And scissors, which might come in handy." They continued the search in silence for a few minutes. Emma had boosted herself onto the counter and sat swinging her legs, clutching a stuffed pig she had found. Rachel glanced at her over her shoulder then quietly said, "I think we need to talk before we get back on the bus."

"About what?" Jerome asked.

Rachel scoffed, planting her hands on her hips. "Things are moving pretty fast. Carmen had a gun to your head, and now we're going to be living together for God knows how long," she said. "We're going to be pretty isolated at Red Fox...I want to make sure you've thought this through."

"There weren't very many people in Alaska to begin with, but who knows how many are left now? I want to be on good terms with as many as I can." Jerome could tell by the way her jaw hardened that she didn't share his line of thinking. He reluctantly continued, "I think we've learned that there is _not_ strength in solidarity. If Brandon hadn't stuck his neck out for us, we would be dead."

"I know that," Rachel replied. "I just think we should try to stay one step ahead for a while. We barely know them."

Jerome had just opened his mouth to reply when he was interrupted by Carmen hollering from somewhere outside. "Hey, get out here!" They stuffed their finds into Jerome's backpack and hurried outside. Brandon jogged out from the market next door and gave his sister a questioning glare. Carmen stood near the front of her bus, pointing somewhere up the road. Her face was as blank as her voice was monotone. "Look at that," she said.

Jerome rushed past the trees that were blocking his view and came to a halting stop as soon as he saw what Carmen was pointing at. A hundred yards or less up the road, more biters than he'd ever seen trudged forward. There must have been dozens of them. Jerome's senses tunneled until their distant moans were the only things he heard and their ambling forms were the only things he saw. People of all sizes, shapes, ages, and races. From all different walks of life, undoubtedly. More appeared out of seemingly every space around. Windows from the businesses across the street, down the street, from around the pharmacy. Mothers, sisters, and daughters, fathers, brothers, and sons. In the end, they were all the same. They all wanted to sink their teeth into living flesh. To stop them, he'd have to kill them. When did that become a way of life?

" _Jerome_!"

Jerome flinched as Rachel yelling his name broke through. There was an urgency in her voice that indicated this wasn't the first time she tried to get his attention. He took in a shuddering breath when he realized the reason his chest hurt was because he had stopped breathing. At some point, Emma had gotten on the bus. She stared at him worriedly through the windshield, mouthing something that looked like 'what are you doing?'

"We've got to go," Rachel shouted, eyes wide.

Jerome ran alongside Rachel and followed her onto the bus. No sooner than his feet hit the aisle, Brandon snapped the doors shut and went hard on the steering wheel, sending the bus into a turn so sharp Jerome fell into a seat beside Carmen. When he found his bearings and forced himself upright, he found her smiling smugly at him. "Welcome back," she sneered.

* * *

Hours had passed since Courtney fought with her grandmother but the only reason she'd stopped crying was because she ran out of tears. She was curled up on her bed, staring out the window with burning, blurry eyes. The photo album clutched to her chest was spattered with teardrops. For what had to have been the hundredth time, she opened the book and found her favorite picture, the one she looked at every night before she went to sleep. With both of her parents, both older brothers, and herself. They were all smiling ear to ear, and her oldest brother was making a goofy face. She still had trouble wrapping her head around the fact that she was the only one left.

Courtney's stomach ached with hunger but she refused to step foot out of the trailer or eat the meal her grandmother prepared. That would somehow be like admitting wrong, or at least that was how Peggy would take it. Someone knocked on the door, and Courtney squeezed her eyes shut with dread. Her luck seemed to have run out even further. Grandma wouldn't dare knock, but Grandpa would, and she didn't want to talk to _anyone_. They would just tell her Peggy was right, she was just a kid and needed to respect her grandmother. Sighing, Courtney cleared her eyes of tears as much as she could and walked to the door, bracing herself for the worst as she pulled it open. Her eyebrows hitched up at the sight of Keisha.

"Hi," Keisha greeted her, giving a big smile. "Can I come in?" Courtney nodded and stepped aside to let her inside. She searched for some sign of judgement or aggression but saw nothing but sincerity. Keisha stepped inside and took a seat at the dinette booth, interlocking her hands atop the faded table. "I wanted to talk to you," she said, inclining her head towards the other booth.

Courtney slowly slid into the seat. "About what?"

"I'm not a therapist, but I did teach eleventh grade world history for nine years," Keisha said. "I know a hurting teenager when I see one. Your Grandmother might not listen, but if you ever need someone to, I will."

"Oh." Heat flooded Courtney's neck. Running through camp in tears surely produced all kinds of thoughts in her fellow survivors, but she was most ashamed that they must pity her. "Well, you don't have to. I'm okay."

"I know I don't _have_ to, but this has been hard on everybody," said Keisha. "We might as well try to help each other out when we can."

Courtney set her gaze on the woods beyond the window. A pair of wrens pecked between the roots of their claimed spruce tree. Life as usual for them, while all the humans were dying or suffering. "Grandma has changed so much," she blurted, surprising even herself.

"How so?"

"She didn't used to be such a…" Courtney struggled to find an appropriate word to say in front of an adult. "Bitter person. We all used to be really close, and now she won't even let me mention my parents or my brothers. I'm just supposed to forget about them, and I don't want to do that. They deserve to be remembered."

"You're absolutely right. Maybe it's best to respect the way your grandmother feels right now, for your own sake. But you certainly don't have to forget them." Keisha paused, shifting in her seat. "If you don't want to answer this, don't feel like you have to. But I couldn't help overhearing, and I just have to wonder…what did your grandpa do that has Peggy so mad at him?"

Courtney's eyes welled up again as the memories came rushing back. She roughly swept the tears away before they could roll down her cheeks. "Before Marvin and Clarence found us at that gas depot, my mom was with us. We were staying in a hotel with some other people. Mom got bit one day while trying to get food with Grandpa." She bit down hard on her lip, willing herself to continue. "We waited all day, but Mom just kept getting worse, then she fell asleep and Grandpa noticed she stopped breathing. He told me to go outside, and I know he…" she trailed off, unable to say the words. "Grandma doesn't believe she would have turned."

Keisha shifted in her seat and cleared her throat. She looked away for a long moment, and when she finally turned back to face Courtney, her eyes seemed much damper. "I'm so sorry," she said softly. "I can't even imagine."

"That was over a month ago, and I still have nightmares almost every night." The image of her mother shuddering on the floor, impossibly pale and moaning in agony, was something Courtney didn't think she would ever get used to. However, that wasn't the only person she saw in her dreams. She'd dreamt of everyone she loved being eaten alive or turning. "My brothers too," she added, almost as an afterthought.

"Were they there?"

Courtney shook her head. "Brian was in the Air Force and deployed over in Iraq. Dustin went to the University of California. My mom tried to get a hold of them right up until the lines went down, but she never could." She sighed as an all too familiar sense of knowing fell over her like a black cloud. "They're gone too. I know they are."

"Your Grandma has chosen one extreme by refusing to believe bad things are happening," Keisha said. "You don't have to go to the other extreme and refuse to believe good things can still happen."

"Baghdad is five thousand six hundred and twenty-seven miles from Fairbanks," Courtney exclaimed. That number had been burned into her brain since the moment Brian deployed. As much as she would've liked to believe Keisha, the suggestion that Brian would come home was too absurd. "Five _thousand_ miles. We didn't even make it ten miles before my mom got bit."

"I'm not saying your brother is going to show up in Fairbanks tomorrow," said Keisha. "But we don't know what the rest of the world is like, Courtney. Iraq could be holding their own. Besides, your brother is in the armed forces." Her gentle smile returned. "I'm married to a former military man, and I can assure you they do not give up without one heck of a fight."

"What about a philosophy major at UCLA?" Unable to look at Keisha's sympathetic face anymore, Courtney snapped her attention back out the window. "Dustin didn't know anything about survival, and he was in _Los Angeles_ ," she emphasized. "I can't imagine how many walkers there are there."

"There's no way to know for sure right now. One thing that is certain is that _you_ are still alive. Their memory, no matter what, will live on in you. I bet you have qualities of all of them."

Courtney sighed. Though she appreciated what Keisha was trying to do, false hope didn't seem like the way to go. "I just wish Grandma would accept that Grandpa had to do what he did."

"How does she think people turn if not after they're bitten?" Keisha asked, tipping her head with curiosity.

"I have no idea." She had stopped trying to figure that out long ago. Grandma never explained, and given her hostility on the subject, no one ever asked.

"Well, everyone has dealt with this in their own way. She'll come around."

"I hope so." After a few moments of silence, Courtney added, "Thanks for talking to me."

"Anytime. And I mean that," Keisha said, locking eyes with Courtney. "You know where we live."

"I really appreciate that. Thank you." Courtney reached out and grabbed Keisha by the wrist as she stood up. "You can't go yet! You haven't told me anything."

Keisha blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Friendship is a two way street. I told you about me, now you have to tell me about you."

"Okay." Keisha hesitantly sunk back into the booth. She drummed her fingers on the table thoughtfully for a few moments. "I've got one. I'm really glad you and Aaliyah get along so well." Courtney scoffed, sweeping strands of brown hair from her face. Before she could speak, Keisha held a hand up to stop her. "Aaliyah can be a handful. At least when you watch her, I can help cook or clean up. In a single day, I went from being a career woman to a stay at home mom. And that's all I know how to do. I can't hunt, I can't fish, I don't like guns, I can't handle myself in the city…" Keisha trailed off. She shrugged, a sadness in her eyes. "All the skills I worked so hard to have don't mean anything anymore."

Thunderous knocking upon the door made both of them jump. Keisha put a hand to her chest and leapt from her seat, beating Courtney to the door. She pulled it open and Clarence stood with one foot on the steps, his face set into a heavy frown. "There's a strange vehicle coming down the path," he said. Aaliyah squeezed past him and slid into the dinette booth, pulling her knees to her chest. "Keisha, you oughta stay here with the kids."

"What?" Keisha's mouth fell open. "Clarence, no, I can…" the rest of their conversation was lost on Courtney. Her heart was hammering so hard in her chest, all she could do was numbly join Aaliyah at the table. _Nobody_ could find Red Fox Creek, at least that's what Ben had always said. They were supposed to be safe.


End file.
